


jumping the gun

by tragakes (lejf)



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alt-Mode Sexual Interfacing, Crack, Implied Switching, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Possibly Dubious Consent, but honestly not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-21
Updated: 2018-04-21
Packaged: 2019-04-25 16:56:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14382975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lejf/pseuds/tragakes
Summary: Optimus fucks himself with a gun he found, which, naturally, is actually Megatron.Megatron doesn't take too kindly to this, but what say does he have?





	jumping the gun

The temporary berthroom was plain as could be, and Optimus found himself pacing its floor for the fifth time that cycle trying to lose some of the pent-up charge in his circuits. It wasn’t the ship’s doing, nor his crew’s. The antsy feeling under his plates was entirely his own fault.

What he knew, and regrettably admitted, was that he was in need of a good, hard, frag. 

He’d been jittery and jumpy all throughout their attack on a Decepticon ship earlier that day. They’d boarded to find that all the Decepticons on board had fled in escape pods after Optimus had made a tactical error, so had simply looted the place instead. At the memory, Optimus found himself looking down at the gun that lay on his desk. He’d requested to keep it out of everything they’d found because, for some inexplicable reason, it’d felt delightfully warm in his servos. 

Now he was thinking about fragging again, as well as that gun. 

It wouldn’t have been the first time he’d interfaced with some unseemly… equipment. 

No, no! What was he thinking? It was a Decepticon weapon! Most likely it was filthy- and- and- perhaps it was designed to automatically go off when pointed at an Autobot. And it certainly was _not_ arousing that it was a Decepticon weapon. He was _not_ going to use it as a fake spike.

A few kliks later found Optimus in his private washracks, running the weapon under solvent, planning to use it to sink into his valve, cursing himself out even as he ran his fingers down its long barrel, rubbing it of any stains it might’ve harboured but thinking about rubbing something _quite_ else. He imagined a Decepticon wielding the weapon, thick servos clutched around it, cleaning it in much the same way. 

Before he knew it, he had a servo on his own spike and was pumping furiously. How could he entertain such traitorous thoughts? He angrily twisted his hand in punishment and the movement sent pleasure singing through his lines. In response, the lust in him reared in full force and had him drying the gun hurriedly, striding to his berth to indulge in the shameful act. 

He sat back, relaxed, spread his legs wide, took a deep breath, and looked down to his valve. It lay exposed, lips parted just slightly, beginning to glisten with lubrication. Optimus didn't want to actually shoot himself, so he fumbled for the safety before he nudged the head of the barrel towards his spread opening. 

For the past few cycles he’d been entertaining himself with his fingers alone. So the sensation of the unresisting metal was foreign, demanding, and above all, so absolutely delightful that Optimus’ helm hit the wall with a _plonk_. He dared to push the weapon in further, nearly jumping in surprise as the gun heated. For a moment he thought it was going to fire and that his crew would barge in the next morning to find Optimus dead on his berth, murdered by a poor fake spike choice and his own libido, but the gun didn’t do anything else but heat and begin to _thrum_.

Was it because of the temperature change? Optimus wondered, and then didn’t wonder, because the tremors running through the weapon were more than delightful and sent charge skittering up his valve. Lubricant leaked down the barrel, and Optimus took that as a sign to push it in further, until his optics were offlining involuntarily because it just _felt so good_. Optimus had had few partners who were better at spiking than this. He slid the gun in and out of him with growing urgency, watching its dark metal piston in and out of him, his valve lips clinging to it on the pull out, and pillow inwards each time he sunk it in. 

He regretted nothing. The gun was an excellent choice. Its tremble seemed to intensify, vibrating against Optimus’ sensitive nodes that had him crying out and really hoping that the walls were more soundproof than they let on. He rolled over on his belly to sink his face into a pillow, servo working desperately behind him as he pumped the weapon deep into him — until he finally bit down in an overload that washed through his entire system and gushed lubricant down his leg-struts.

He wouldn’t admit it later, but he fell into blissed out offline immediately. 

 

 

 

And woke sometime in the night, staring at the ceiling, feeling distinctly crushed against his berth. “What–“ he mumbled, and nearly jumped out of his plating when the unmistakable voice of _Megatron_ , leader of the Decepticon army, crowned with his red optics, answered him. 

In a deep, gravelly voice, “Open.”

Optimus’ legs fell apart automatically and his panel clicked back. Was this a dream? Of course it was a dream. Megatron couldn’t possibly be on their ship. Optimus couldn’t believe he was even _dreaming_ of being fragged by a Decepticon — not that he hadn’t before, and not that he hadn’t thought of Megatron specifically — but, well, fragging the gun must’ve taken a toll on him. 

Megatron was pushing in huge claws, which Optimus would’ve been a lot more concerned about if it wasn’t a dream, though the pleasure of it felt incredibly real. They were spreading him open with surprising gentleness, running over several nodes that had him jerking and leaking. He lay there for who knew how long, twitching under Megatron’s ministrations as he was carefully, achingly, spread open. His own spike was drooling transfluid against his stomach plating, its bio-lights illuminating the wetness of Megatron’s claws as they slid in and out. 

Optimus rolled his hips slightly. “Spike,” he said, and sounded slightly bossy even to his own audials.

Megatron’s red optics, the only other source of light (aside from his own) were focused down on Optimus’ valve. 

“I loathe to follow your directives, but–”

“You don’t really have a choice,” Optimus pointed out, because this was a dream, and if Optimus was aware that it was a dream, then it was a lucid one, and he was able to control it. 

“I don’t,” Megatron agreed. “Your valve is far too tempting.”

Optimus felt a little flattered, and then the flattery was drowned in need as the tip of a broad spike broached him, igniting all the nodes near the entrance. His own groan was covered by Megatron’s, whose claws had cautiously clasped themselves around Optimus’ hips. 

In no time he was riding Megatron’s spike, praise falling from his lips, as Megatron snarled and leaned down. 

“How does it feel?”

“It feels- ah- fantastic, Megatron– thanks-“

“To be _used_.” He punctuated his statement with a sharp thrust that left Optimus reeling with stars behind his optics. “ _Blind_ , deaf, _trapped_ and humiliated in my alt-form to be used for some bot’s pleasure!” 

Optimus realised very suddenly that it was most certainly not a dream, but apparently Megatron chose that exact moment to overload in him, warm transfluid shooting up into his valve — and apparently overloaded so hard that Optimus saw sparks flying from somewhere in Megatron, optics flaring white for a second. And then the warlord promptly collapsed over him, systems dark.

Optimus stared a bit, cycled his valve a little forlornly, denied his overload. He wriggled away from under Megatron’s hold and considered his plan of action, and then reached under his berth. If it wasn’t a dream, all the better. 

 

 

He realised immediately when Megatron onlined, because the huge frame jolted and then jerked wildly at the static cuffs around his wrists and at the sheets Optimus had hastily tied around his eyes. “Optimus,” he growled warningly, but not without a touch of uncertainty. 

Optimus had been patiently waiting for him to re-boot, sitting between Megatron’s legs, teasing the seams of his panel with his servos. He patted one of his knees assuringly. “Maybe I’m crazy, but it sounded as though you _liked_ being blind, deaf, trapped, and humiliated.”

Megatron fell very still beneath him, but the small _snick_ of his panel was incriminating enough. Optimus dipped his fingers into Megatron’s — already soaking — valve in reward. 

“I left out the deaf and alt-mode part, but it should be enough. Stop is stop, alright?”

Then he was pushing in, Megatron’s valve large and sloppy enough not to need much preparation or preamble, and Megatron was keening beneath him. Optimus was only too glad to give. 

*

Ratchet exited his room the next morning ready to throw every piece of equipment in his arsenal at blasted Optimus alongside whichever idiotic addle-brained mech had joined him in making a cacophony.

But when he saw Optimus in their refuelling room, the gun he'd found yesterday strangely holstered at his hip, he looked _dismayed_. “Ratchet,” he said, and Ratchet prepared to reel in his criticism and make way for some tale of his woeful spark-break. “I broke my berth.”

Ratchet’s shout must’ve woken the whole ship, and if it didn’t, the ensuing clamour of chasing Optimus around, wrenches flying from him like a dispensing machine, did.

**Author's Note:**

> heheh 
> 
> I have a problem.


End file.
